


Instinct

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, bff!SHIP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally Donovan has a choice -- she can either quit her job as a Detective Sergeant, and stand on principle, or she can transfer to a new team, under the leadership of DI Greg Lestrade. (The story of "How Greg Met Sally".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HooperMolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HooperMolly/gifts).



“Alright, dearie. This one’s yours.” 

Sally stopped beside the old woman, trying her hardest not to sneer at the empty workspace across from the water cooler. It was a shabby space, with no privacy. Another desk fenced hers in, and a glass-walled office stood opposite -- taunting her with thoughts of a promotion she might never get. 

As if deliberately getting her own case dismissed on a technicality was a bad thing.

But this was Scotland Yard! her boss had said. This was the Met Police for Christ’s sakes, and the police didn’t defend the guilty party -- they found the bloody evidence, arrested the suspect and turned the lot of it over to rotten lawyers who could argue and bungle to their heart’s content! God, she could hear his voice perfectly.

And by morning on the very next day, she’d been transferred to a different DI. 

Her new desk was in a different section of the building, on a different floor, with different people. The walls were a weird colour, and she hadn’t even seen her new boss -- some bloke named Lestrade. She’d asked around, tried to dig up information on him before she’d packed up her things and walked over, but the answers weren’t even the slightest bit favourable.

“He’s a bully,” a PC had said. 

“Takes the problem cases,” and there was no doubt in her mind that her source meant people like her, rather than particularly difficult murders. 

A bully -- a hard-headed, old man who smartened up reckless or irresponsible detectives, or sent them packing if he felt they couldn’t hack it. Just the type of bastard who wouldn’t give a rat’s arse for her opinions, she figured -- someone who wanted consistent, uninvolved case-closers. 

Sally was not that kind of detective -- and if she was right, she felt she might as well hand in her badge right then, because bugger all if she was going to compromise. 

“Dearie?” 

The old woman’s voice brought her back to the present -- back to her desk, and back to the situation at hand. What had happened yesterday -- that case -- was in the past, and she needed to put it behind her. She was proud, but she was a professional, and it was just bloody stupid to let one miserable case get to her. 

“Yeah, thanks,” she answered, offering the woman a half-hearted smile. “It’s great.” 

The secretary laughed and lightly touched her arm. “No need to lie to me, dear. It’s a bit dark, but I think I’ve got just the lamp for it in the store room -- if you want it, I mean?”

The woman’s generosity genuinely caught her off guard. “Uhm... yeah, sure. Thanks.” It was petty, she knew, but she couldn’t dismiss the resentment she felt at needing a lamp in the first place.

Her last desk hadn’t needed a lamp. 

But her resentment, thoughts of her last desk, hell -- thoughts of her new desk, even, went out the window when the secretary beamed at her, and reassuringly added: “We’re glad to have you, you know. Greg says you’re one of the best in the Yard.” 

Sally stared. It took her a minute for her mouth to catch up to her brain. “Sorry, Greg?” She asked, not sure what to think any more.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the old woman answered. “That’s his office, there.” She pointed to the room Sally had sneered at only minutes before. 

“Wait.” Sally dropped her box of things on the empty desk and put her hand on her hip. “How does he think he knows that? We’ve never even met.” 

If she was surprised by Sally’s response, the secretary didn’t show it. “Well, he did ask to have you transferred here,” she answered. “Didn’t you know?” She pressed on at the dumbfounded expression on Sally’s face. “Oh, well -- you’ll meet him soon enough. Mind that smile of his though. Downright charming, he is. I’ll just pop off and get your lamp. You settle in!” 

She was gone before Sally had a chance to protest -- which was lucky for her, because a whole new, ugly thought had reared its head. “Charming, is he?” she muttered angrily to herself. “We’ll see about that.”

By the time the secretary returned, Sally had rotated the desk so that her back would face “Greg’s” office when she was seated. The shelf of water jugs for the cooler -- a hellish thing to move -- stood between her and the desk that had been attached to hers. She would have her own cubicle, even if it meant building it from things snatched from the supply cupboard. 

“Well, whatever suits you, dear.” The woman had said. She handed over the lamp and retreated to the front of the office, leaving Sally to set up shop until her new boss returned. 

She only hoped that her renovations would live up to his apparently lofty expectations.

As she went about the business of putting out her things (she was newly determined to make it as a detective regardless of who or what they threw at her), she noticed that her new co-workers seemed uniquely uninterested in her presence. There was nothing haughty about it -- they’d all smiled when she fiercely made eye contact. They just seemed to have more important things to do than flutter over and bother her.

She wasn’t sure if she was miffed, or grateful. 

Only a young-looking fellow with dark, but greying hair bothered to come up to her once she’d sat down. She’d seen him walk into the office a minute or so before, and stop to have a chat with the kind-hearted secretary -- but she hadn’t thought much of him. To be fair, at that point she didn’t know what to think of anyone. 

They all seemed so strangely cheerful for a bunch of homicide investigators.

“Didn’t like the set up?” the man asked, reaching for a cup from the water cooler. 

Sally swiveled around to face him, noting the wrinkles in his clothes and his casual appearance. Youngish, badly dressed and slightly invasive? Probably tech support, she reasoned. “I like my privacy,” she answered. 

The man snorted. “Good luck getting it in this office. Those two’ll have your whole life’s story out of you, and seven dates set up with their nearest kin before you realise it,” he warned, nodding his head to the front desk. 

“Two?” Sally asked, her curiosity overcoming her desire to firmly inform him that she had no interest in dates of any kind. 

“Yeah, there are two administrative assistants,” he replied genially. “Agnes you’ve met -- she showed you to your desk, she said. The other one...” He trailed off, as if considering the best way to describe the second. “Mrs. Digby -- Edna, but really, don’t -- is out with the flu at the moment.” 

“It’s July.” 

“You’ll understand when you meet her,” the man answered with a grin. 

Sally couldn’t resist a small smile. Here was a nice enough fellow, she thought. Maybe he’d make up for the rubbish situation she’d found herself in. Hell, if the DI was even half so charming, she’d-- 

Her heart very suddenly sank, taking her smile with it.

“Sorry -- I didn’t catch your name?” she asked quickly. 

The man gave her a quizzical look, as if she might be having him on. Sally certainly wasn’t, but he pointed to her laptop with a wry smile. It was open to the Met database -- the page hadn’t finished loading before he’d interrupted and Sally had turned around -- but ‘lo and behold, there he was, and looking significantly less cheerful on the screen. “Greg Lestrade,” he answered, even though his name was plainly visible. “You are Sally Donovan, yeah?” 

Sally didn’t answer at first, preferring to mentally slap herself silly as she bit her lip and stared at his picture. Very kind of fate, she silently mused, to pull a stunt like that. 

“Yeah,” she replied with a nod, slowly turning back to him. “Yeah, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.” She’d had an entire speech worked out, blunt facts about her record and sticking to her guns, but the whole thing leaked out of her head before she could even bring up a word. This guy -- this guy, seriously? She couldn’t be bothered to care if she lived up to his expectations because she was too busy trying to pick the shattered remnants of her own up off the floor. 

“Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan,” he repeated, sipping his water. “DS SD. Very cool -- I like it.” 

She pursed her lips awkwardly. “Thanks.” 

“Uhh, d’you mind popping into my office for a quick chat?” Lestrade asked, pointing over his shoulder at the glass room. “If you’re done here -- no rush.” 

She would have given a kidney for the chance to turn him down -- just on principle, but she had no cause and no excuse. So she nodded -- and silently cursed him to hell and back as she followed him inside.

“Have a seat,” the DI offered, dropping into his chair. 

She did -- but not before she noticed a football tucked away in the corner. What the hell kind of a place was this?

“So, I know I probably should have spoken to you before I asked to have you transferred,” he began, leaning back. “But Dawes was honestly gunning to have you axed for that stunt you pulled.” 

“It wasn’t a stunt,” she stated defensively. 

“You didn’t like his solution, so you had the whole thing thrown out on a technicality.”

“His solution was wrong.” 

“Well, yeah.” Lestrade nodded. “Complete bollocks -- but it was still a stunt.” He crushed the paper cup in his hand and lobbed into the waste bin. “Good one, though,” he added. 

Sally felt very confused. She’d envisioned this particular conversation about ten different ways -- but none of them had involved any praise. “Sir?” she asked, tentatively. 

“It had to the be son,” the DI replied. “No alibi -- perfect motive. Christ, he testified to seeing the old man abuse his mum, didn’t he?”

She could only nod. 

“But Dawes wouldn’t have any of it?” 

Sally shook her head. “He said I was over-complicating things.” 

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Probably offered some bullshit about a woman running to a woman’s aid, right? Obstinate bastard.” Sally stared at him, and he offered her a sympathetic smile. “Look, Donovan. You’re a good detective -- clearly very bright, and you follow your instincts. I need people like that -- like you -- on my team. You can go back to Dawes if you want, I know he gets a lot of the big cases -- but he’s just going to ship you to Traffic the first chance he gets.” 

Her head ached a little bit, trying to keep up with whatever the hell was happening. 

She’d suspected that Joanne Miller -- a woman accused of stabbing her husband to death -- had been innocent from the start. Despite every shred of proof linking her to the crime -- despite her inexplicable lack of an alibi -- despite her refusal to deny the allegations without actually pleading guilty -- something wasn’t right. Everything added up, all the details fit, and her DI unrelenting accepted what therefore must have been true. 

But Sally didn’t buy it. Her intuition wouldn’t let her. 

She had the entire case dropped by proving that the murder weapon was collected illegally -- before the Met had presented a search warrant. Without a murder weapon, there was no conviction -- and not just for Mrs. Miller, but for the actual murderer -- her son. 

Dawes had screamed at her for hours after the trial. 

She never felt a single ounce of regret.

But she was fairly convinced that she wasn’t going to keep her job after that. Reporting misapprehended evidence was one thing -- but she’d done it intentionally, in an attempt to subvert a decision made by a superior officer. She’d paved the road to unemployment with her good intentions. 

“Donovan?”

Sally looked up sharply. She’d completely forgotten that she was sitting in Lestrade’s office -- though, how she could have done it, she wasn’t sure. Hell, she wasn’t even sure why she was sitting there in the first place. She should have been on her arse outside the building.

But this man -- this so-called bully of a DI -- didn’t agree. He seemed to think that she had potential, even though he hardly knew her.

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan was a bit of a hot head. She had a temper, and she had very strong opinions -- neither of which were particularly welcome in the strict hierarchy at Scotland Yard. Still, she could always take a deep breath, and she could bite her tongue, but the one thing she could never do -- what she vehemently refused to do -- was ignore her instincts. 

Her instinct told her that Greg Lestrade was a person she could trust. 

“I think I’ll stay here,” she answered.


End file.
